Not Dogs
by Xyzo
Summary: Bob, an ice cream vendor, unwittingly finds himself in the midst of a terrible conspiracy threatening to change the life of mankind as we know it. Can Bob make sense of the digital mess and halt the encroaching dangers of technology before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Modern day Chicago. The marvel of civilization. A place where everyone and everything was connected. A place where all was available at the touch of a button.

But also a place full of overly frightened people.

Bob was a simple ice cream vendor. Balding, slightly overweight and a tad crazy, yet extremely devoted to his job. Early in the morning, he did his usual breakfast-hygiene routine and then rushed to earn money.

He had his lovely purple van parked out in front of the block of flats where he lived. The sight of it filled his heart with joy. He caressed the door handle. He squirmed in the cosy seat. He toyed with the wheel, bathing in heavens.

But just as he put the key in the ignition, his dream was cut short, for the passersby on the nearby pavement suddenly flinched and cowered. "He's out of control!" they screamed. Some even took to their heels.

Bob didn't understand. In fact, he was hurt a little. Why did they fear him? What was so dreadful about a fortyish bloke driving an ice cream van?

He felt bullied. Their mocking reactions brought him to his childhood years. To times without ctOS and all it entailed. Dark times indeed. There had been no cameras on any corner. No way of seeing boys making Bob's life miserable. No watchful eye which would have dispatched help.

Bob wondered how things would have been if he had been born in this era. Probably much better. However, he didn't keep up with the reverie for long. Busy streets of Chicago dragged him back amongst the living.

Without having realized it, he was traversing the tarmac, approaching a junction. The traffic lights shined green, yet there was a pedestrian brazenly crossing the thoroughfare.

Bob was a calm man by nature. He didn't let this rebellious individual spoil his mood. He stopped the vehicle by the intersection a yard away from the man, who took offence much to Bob's confusion.

"Get back on the road!" he barked at Bob, who could only stare in disbelief.

He shrugged off the ridiculousness of the moment and carried on with his daily mission. Alas, fate seemed to be arrayed against him on that day. When he was brought to a halt by cars ahead, a strange man emerged from a nearby alleyway. He wore a trench coat and a baseball cap.

Bob didn't pay much attention to him. He had seen weirder folks during his lifetime. Yet that was a mistake which he soon felt. The door to his van opened despite having been locked.

"Out!" the man yelled, clasping Bob's elbow and pulling him out. The confounded ice cream vendor was so shocked his body simply folded and allowed itself to be dragged like a ragdoll. In the next second, he was lying on the cold grey road while the thief was dashing away in Bob's beloved vehicle.

Bob arose, shouting at the rude man. Anger clouded his vision. He was a grown person. Not a bullied kid anymore. He wouldn't let anyone make a tool of him. Yet how could he get back the van which was disappearing beyond a corner?

He did the sole possible thing. He grabbed his phone and dialled 911. But his bad luck didn't run out yet. The signal was lost. People in the street moaned and cursed, apparently hit by the connection outage too.

He was paralyzed. Cars were honking. Drivers gesticulated wildly at him. He ignored them. He merely stared at the littered pavements, shabby businesses and worn-down houses. Nobody cared about the mess. They were all glued to their smartphone screens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

With the loss of his cherished ice cream van, Bob's life had taken a plunge straight into a clogged toilet. He succumbed to alcoholism and self-loathing. Once a bright individual of the community was now a ruined wreck sitting in the middle of his living room. Alone, surrounded by dirty laundry and empty pizza boxes.

He had done his best to reclaim his van. His only joy in this wretched and bleak universe. Without success. The police had told him it had vanished and they couldn't have done anything about it.

Bob groaned at the injustice. How come they couldn't retrieve it? How hard was it to check their databases? They always bragged how perfect this ctOS was. How interconnected and effective it was. Licence plates, ownership lists, cameras capable of identifying vehicles and people. All useless.

It was unfair, yet what was he supposed to do? Apathy crept into his soul. Nothing, that's what he was supposed to do. He wouldn't make a difference anyway.

Or would he?

Staring blankly at a switched-off TV, his eyes focused on the smartphone placed on the table, half-buried beneath dishes, papers and various junk. The device began ringing.

He disregarded it at first. Telemarketers without doubt, he thought.

But the sound didn't cease. Slowly and furtively, it was crawling into his mind. _Pick it up, Bob,_ his inner voice goaded him. _Come on. Do it. What if it's the police? What if they found your van?_

He breathed in with resolution. A fleeting moment of indignation. He took it and glanced at the small screen. Unknown caller.

Why would someone hiding their number wish to talk to him? He didn't understand, but he didn't pay attention to it. And while he was holding it, he reasoned he might as well have picked it up.

"Bob the Ice Cream Man speaking," he introduced himself despite his name no longer being correct. He was simply Bob and his business was busted. His debt was mounting and his reputation plummeting.

"Berry Street, Brandon Docks," said a raspy male voice on the other end. "Eight p.m."

"Excuse me?" Bob replied, confounded by the terseness.

"You want your van, don't you? No police. Be on time."

The caller hung up, leaving Bob listening anxiously to a beeping tone. First, there was a surge of hope. Next, there was fear. What was going on? Why the secrecy? He didn't have a good feeling about this.

He checked the clock. Half past six. Although he wasn't sure who he'd be meeting, he knew that his van was big and purple and that made it a pain in the side to conceal it. Maybe if he arrived early and scoped out the area, he might get lucky. After all, fortune favoured the prepared mind.

So he vanished in the bathroom to civilize himself a bit and then he rushed out. The streets were busy in the evening. People were always hurrying somewhere.

He hailed a cab, contemplating the upcoming event. Troubles, complications. He visualised the location. A hectic neighbourhood. Lots of traffic. Lots of city life. Dirty and hideous backstreets.

He was so preoccupied by his planning that he ignored his surroundings. As soon as he told the taxi driver his destination, he believed the driving wouldn't be his problem. However, there was much more which would become his problem.

Across the street in a noisy pub, there were two crooks. They held a photo at eye level, comparing it to the person they could see on camera footage streamed to their smartphones.

They nodded.

One of them toyed with their smartphone and sent a prepared message to the team tucked in an alleyway with a view on the main road and the taxi. They had two sedans parked there. One positioned so that it could dart after the taxi, the other positioned perpendicularly, allowing a sniper to put his rifle on the hood and aim.

It was perfect for the assassins. The spot, the weapons, even ctOS. Billions of dollars spent on keeping tabs on everything, yet this little place was off their angles. They were in the clear.

The phone in the sniper's pocket buzzed. He smiled.

And pulled the trigger.

There was a silencer sitting around the muzzle of the rifle. It soaked up most of the noise, but the thump still echoed. Thankfully, it was absorbed by the ordinary din of the streets.

As for the bullet, it missed Bob by a hair's breadth. A crazy coincidence. Although the projectile travelled at insane speed, needing a mere split second to reach its target, the taxi driver had already started the engine and moved out. It managed to get just inches forward, yet it was all that was necessary to botch the hit.

Bob's heart was pounding. Glass shards were raining around him. The driver hissed and fell over the wheel, sounding the horn. His foot on the gas slid away and the car halted afterwards.

The sniper breathed in. He was under duress. While his victim wasn't particularly far, sharpshooting wasn't a piece of cake. It required enormous skill and concentration. Stress wasn't a welcome factor.

"Shit!" Bob shouted. He realized he was fighting for his life. The driver's mangled head and the brains splattered over his window confirmed it.

He leaned over to the deceased's door, opening, pushing him out, closing and assuming his place. It occupied him for five seconds. Enough for the sniper to get ready again, while his colleagues watched with anxiety and hands on their concealed pistols.

The sniper took aim, but Bob was shifting too much. Civilians in the streets began catching up to what was happening. Some were screaming, some running, others both. One woman even hurtled across the road. Just as the sniper almost pulled the trigger, the woman dashed by, obstructing his view.

"Damn it!" the sniper cursed, sensing his hands shaking. He tempered his mind and prepared to do his job. Yet as the woman cleared off, he couldn't see Bob. The man had lowered himself. The side door covered him.

It was now or never, the sniper acknowledged. So he fired at the door.

At the same moment, Bob raced out. The round drilled through composite materials and seats.

His heart was beating insanely. He was lightheaded. But he knew he couldn't stop. They were after him. He spotted two black sedans rushing out from the alleyway. In the dark of night and with only lamp lights and headlights illuminating the roads, he couldn't sight his pursuers' faces. Yet when guns barked around him, he recognized he was in serious trouble.

He drove to an intersection in the busy neighbourhood crammed with houses and buildings. He remembered the movies. Sharp turns, roaring engines and screaming tires. But he wasn't a racer with some hidden talent. He slowed down just enough and did his best to hurtle left, feeling the momentum pushing him and the chassis forth, nearly causing them roll over to the roof.

Yet he managed it. No finesse, though it didn't matter. The thugs easily cornered, smashing through a glass ad on the pavement, barely missing pedestrians. They gained view on Bob. So they started shooting like mad, breaking the window on his side.

Up until then, the traffic was sparse. But Bob was heading to the city centre. Cars were popping in from adjacent streets.

Bob hardly dodged a sluggish van, bringing himself to the wrong lane, darting directly towards doom in the form of two shining headlights. The insane speed at which he was going and his erratic reflexes neutralized his reaction. He was about to crash into the advancing vehicle.

Yet it slid to the pavement at the last second, sounding the horn.

Bullets were biting the rear window, chewing it apart. He got back to his lane, using the unhurried cars as cover. But his enemies overtook them. Bob was meandering in amidst the tangle of vehicles, evading those driving in the opposite lane. He was surviving thanks to determination and sheer luck.

Yet his foes were nearing. He didn't have much time and he knew it. Few yards separated them. Would the next projectile be the final?

He plunged into the closest backstreet, barely avoiding a collision with a brick wall. There was rummage and trash along the straight and narrow path, but he raced over it. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, yet he ignored them anyway.

They caught up. The relatively clear and unobstructed alleyway, the source of relief, became a nightmare. He floored the gas pedal and changed gears, frightened to the bone. What if he didn't handle it?

The road was approaching. He prepared to use the handbrake like in the movies.

He counted silently. Ten. Five. Three...

A clueless family was walking in. He saw the horror on their faces as they leapt aside. He emerged into a bustling street afterwards. Pavement, bus stops, people and lots of traffic. Then he tried to do the handbrake trick, aiming left.

It was rough and he almost lost control of the taxi, hurtling towards the opposite sidewalk.

One of his opponents' sedans rammed into his left. The cars trembled, sending shock throughout Bob's whole body. Yet somehow, he managed to get out of the grip threatening to pin him to the wall of a shabby old house.

The road before him was fairly empty. He dashed forward. His foes did the same. They obviously had faster cars and were better chauffeurs. One sedan drove parallel to Bob's. The window slid down. Bob glanced sideways for a spell.

He was gazing directly into the darkness of a pistol muzzle. There was nothing but death inside.

"Goodbye, shithead!" the gun's owner shouted.

Bob leaned down, temporarily unable to behold what was ahead. Yet it saved his life. The handgun barked and the bullet swished through the air, missing him.

The roaring of their engine shifted down a little, indicating they gained a bit of distance. He straightened and saw a truck in front of him. Panic grasped him. He lurched left, entering the pavement, crushing a stand and some well-stacked cardboard boxes.

They exited the streets afterwards. A bridge was drawing near. Yet as soon as the lengthy truck was behind, they crashed into his side. They attempted to spin him, but he did his best to remain in control.

They did it again. They pushed him out of the sidewalk and into grass. The car rushed through bumpy terrain, running beside the rising bridge contours. Water was directly before him. He screamed in terror, slamming the brake pedal.

The vehicle drifted madly. He couldn't keep track of his surroundings anymore. They were moving too fast. Then a bridge pillar appeared in front of him. He couldn't have done anything at all.

The collision was nasty. The chassis folded like a sheet of paper. Airbags kicked in.

The thugs pulled up at the edge of the road and paced to the wreck, guns ready just in case. Some of them had flashlights on, illuminating the dark area under the bridge where Bob had ended his flight.

They examined the buckled vehicle and grinned. "The guy's done for."

"That's what you get for pissing off the wrong people."

"A clown with an ice cream van. Who would have guessed the vigilante owned an ice cream van?"

"Do you think he sold ice cream when he was alive?"

The ruffians laughed.

"Aiden Pearce. Ice cream man. Ha."

They were satisfied. He seemed dead to them. Bloodied and clinched in a warped mess of metal and plastic. So they walked away.

But he wasn't dead. He heard every single word.

He fell unconscious shortly afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Bob woke up in a gloomy hospital room, immediately annoyed by a constant beeping sound. Beside his bed, there were numerous machines monitoring his health. Ignoring pain and bruises, he tilted his head to side, staring at a large window. He saw the city skyline at night. Mostly skyscrapers.

He mulled over his recent predicament. Of course, he knew who the vigilante was. The news were full of him and his story. Yet how could these murderers have mistaken him for Aiden Pearce?

He sighed, turning away from the window, settling his gaze on the cold white wall opposite it. The van. The vigilante had stolen it. Why didn't it occur to him sooner? He felt weak and his arms ached, but if he had been okay, he would have hit himself in the forehead for his stupidity.

However, it didn't matter at that time. Pearce had apparently used his van for some crazy street vendetta. And the thugs had tracked it to Bob, surmising he had been Pearce. For a spell, he found it hilarious, being detached from the unforgiving reality. Then he remembered the mess he was in and sourness flooded his brain.

Yet there were other mysteries. Startling problems mostly, like who exactly the attackers were and whether they discovered he had survived. Bob was also interested in learning who had saved him. He didn't recall crawling out of the taxi.

The enigmas were piling up, but at least one could be answered straight away. An unknown figure entered the room. He looked at the newcomer immediately, yet the brightness coming from the hallway was blinding him. However, he didn't have to wait for long. The individual switched on the light in there.

Bob's eyes accustomed in a while. He was staring at an ordinary thirtyish man in casual clothes. Not a doctor and not a murderer, though appearances could be deceptive and he was fully aware of that. "The nurse said you were waking up."

"Who are you?" Bob asked, observing the visitor carefully.

"A friend of a friend who hauled your sorry ass out of certain death," he spoke, stopping by Bob's bed.

"What's going on? Who were those people? How did I pull through?"

"Hold on, hold on," the man interrupted Bob's flood of questions. "I'm merely the middle man."

"Who is that friend of yours? Is it Aiden Pearce?"

The man drew breath, as if about to respond. But then he smiled. The remark amused him. "Aiden Pearce? No. Obviously not. The bloke doesn't care for anybody apart from his own."

"So why did you come? What do you want from me?

"Not much. Just cooperation."

"Cooperation? Concerning what?'

"Concerning our business."

"And that is?"

"You'll be notified soon enough," the man said, turning away and heading out.

"Why travelling here if you're not telling?"

The man paused. "We desired to ensure you knew you owe us. So that no... misunderstandings would occur later on. Oh and... don't worry about any hired guns. They've learned they killed the wrong bloke."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Bob had a lot to think about during his hospital days. Although assured that nobody would sneak in to murder him, he couldn't weed out the paranoia and fear. What if the hitmen discovered he had survived? They would certainly wish to tie loose ends up. Or not? What exactly could he snitch on them? Nothing. If Bob wanted to get back at those guys, he wouldn't do much damage with his testimony.

Still, he believed he was in terrible danger.

Once they released him and he arrived home, another surprise awaited him. His house had been tidied up. His phone was on the table although he had possessed it during the car chase. The ordinary individual he had met suddenly seemed creepy to him.

His life had changed. Again. From a happy ice cream vendor through a wrecked alcoholic to a man who desperately craved answers.

Alas, the most solid and least dangerous lead he had was the vigilante. He had to get in touch with him.

Then there were Brandon Docks. Bob grabbed the phone. Why had the mysterious caller spat out that address? As he pondered it, he concluded it had been a ruse. They had lured him out. They had had to ensure their people wouldn't have ducked too long out there.

Or not? He had exited early. If he had been in the shoes of the caller, would he have said the same time? Or did they know him? In this digital age, it was so easy to dig info on others. Perhaps they had pieced together his psychological profile. Perhaps they had figured out he'd walk out immediately.

Cold chill rose up his spine. Not because of this reasoning, but the factor of surveillance. He flinched away from the phone. Two weeks ago, he had been a nobody. How come these folks had tracked him? And how come some unknown friend of a friend had saved him in exchange for allegiance?

He shivered whenever he thought about it. Although the days now were mostly peaceful and no-one contacted him, the shock he had experienced had him constantly replaying it in his head.

He had to find Aiden Pearce. He had to reclaim his life. However, there was also the undertow. Flee from Chicago. Start anew far away from this terrible mess before it consumed him.

Eventually, this notion won. His random roams around the city didn't yield fruit. His paranoia mounted in the meantime. He saw an enemy in every face. Furtive gangsters clutching handguns in their pockets. Mobsters with phones sending messages to others, updating them with his position. And the police. They were in on this too. They had done nothing about retrieving his van. They had done nothing about the attempt on his life. The news remained silent as well.

The whole damned town was in on it.

He needed to escape.

Hailing a cab was out of the question. He borrowed a car, intending to ditch it later on and change his identity. However, his plan folded even before he got out.

He sighted the vigilante.

Right in Parker Square, heading to Owl Motel. A cheap yet fancy U-shaped two-storey place enveloping a parking lot.

Normally, he'd consider direct approach, but the recent events had redefined him. He didn't wish more trouble. He wanted to make sure. So he pulled up by the sidewalk, out of the man's view. Then he paced to the parking lot. He was sweating. Where did Pearce go? Did those seconds cost him his chance?

He couldn't find him. No matter where he glanced, there was no Aiden Pearce. Not in any vehicle, not stepping on the stairs leading to the upper floor, not standing in any entrance to an apartment.

Bob cursed, but he didn't give up. He must have been around.

Luck shined on him. He beheld a strange girl. Piercings, tattoos, cold gaze on her face. He pegged her as the rebellious kind. A fitting acquaintance for the vigilante. She had arrived to meet him without doubt. The way she strode, the way she looked. It told of suspense and anxiety.

She walked through a door without knocking. That must have been it, he believed.

He rushed to the closest flight of stairs, making it to the upper level, which was practically a giant balcony. There, he planted his ears at the keyhole.

Silence. Nothing.

He had a bad feeling about it. So he paced around, searching for a clue, an escape route, an alternate entry, anything.

No. This was pointless. Why playing cat and mouse with somebody who fought crime in the city, albeit in a twisted fashion? This needed a direct confrontation. He was about to return to the door, so focused on Pearce that he had completely ignored the encroaching steps.

Then it all went wrong. There was a deafening explosion. Fiery inferno swelled sideways, consuming a nearby wall. He sensed the heat. The shockwave almost toppled him. Cars were pulling over at the lot. Armed men were swarming the area.

Bob's brain sent a signal to run for his life. Yet before the legs processed it, the door was kicked open. He stood a yard away.

Pearce darted out. Plunged right, aiming for the stairs instinctively. He crashed into Bob. But the ice cream vendor wasn't a lightweight. He was a mass of flesh and fat, effortlessly absorbing the momentum. In the ensuing mess, they fumbled hastily, scarcely wrestling to get out of each other's way. Bob just deflected pushes, trying to regain balance. They somehow turned in a half-circle. Bob was staring out of the balconies, Pearce was staring at his apartment.

The fatal bullet followed. The man in his embrace stopped struggling and folded like a house of cards. Only now did Bob realize Pearce held a phone in one hand. In the chaos of the situation, Bob grabbed it and fled. The woman emerged from the building afterwards, catching sight of him.

Bob reached the stairs. He sprinted down as fast as he could, yet he tripped and tumbled. His bulky figure cushioned him, so he recovered easily. But the place was flooded with murderous individuals. Once they saw him, they opened fire like mad.

He took cover by a large flower planter, recollecting. Behind him was a short underpass along with the stairs, leading out to the streets. It was his best chance.

These guys were frenzied, emptying their magazines in a flash. That was Bob's moment. He dashed through the underpass, hurtling left. He wasn't built to last, yet he ignored his failing stamina and rushed towards where his car waited. He was wheezing, his legs were aching, but he persevered.

He was yards away from his target. Merely to cross the road. It was paralyzed by the skirmish. Civilians had escaped, drivers had sped away or abandoned their vehicles. Once he got to the road, he'd be exposed.

He left the pavement. The motel parking lot became visible from his point. Which meant he became visible to whoever was there.

The mobsters who sighted him opened fire. Bullets danced around him as the guns barked. But he made it to his borrowed sedan. He leapt in and frantically started the engine and floored the gas pedal.

The fixers stopped their shooting spree and darted for their vehicles. Yet this time, Bob had the advantage and experience. He raced out of the neighbourhood and vanished in a seamy alleyway, hiding the sedan between trash, cardboard boxes and containers. He killed the engine, lowered his side window by a notch and sank down just enough so he could monitor the area.

Numerous cars swished past the backstreet and he listened to their roars. Were they the gangsters? Or regular traffic? He couldn't tell.

He heard somebody pulling over. Then there were footsteps. Slow and calm. He held his breath.

Someone was approaching. He prayed they'd turn away.

They didn't.

Thanks to the weak lights in the street, the advancing individual was casting a sinister shadow on the graffiti-adorned walls of the houses delimiting the alleyway. Like a tall giant, the threat drew nearer.

Bob's heart shrank to a pebble.

The unknown person stepped into view. It was a man. Unarmed. A simple pedestrian. Bob sighed in relief.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello, dear readers. As much as I enjoyed writing this, I'm afraid this will be the last chapter for quite some time. I hope you enjoyed it._

_But if things go right, maybe there will be new chapters soon... it depends. The main reason why I can't continue is that I'm too busy and I don't have time to revise as much as I'd like. _

_Also, is anyone here interested in being my beta reader (or a writing partner)? (Not just fan-fiction.) Strong grasp of grammar preferred. :)_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

He slept in there until the next morning. It was risky, but he was too scared to abandon his hideout. What if they had been waiting for him, patrolling the place?

However, the following day changed his attitude. He reasoned that whoever those guys were, they certainly wouldn't stand around for eternity. They must have surmised he had left Parker Square.

Yet before he drove out, he checked the spoils of the little operation. The phone sitting on the passenger's seat. A neat gadget similar to his. There was something mystic about it. He had never stolen anything. This was new. Bitter, confounding and frightening.

Then the memories of the recent ordeal kicked him hard. Had the vigilante really died in front of him?

However, he promptly reminded himself of his mission. He had to reclaim his van and his life with it. He couldn't run away now. He was too deep in this mess.

Bringing the device up from its idle state, Bob noticed it had several missed calls, spanning over a limited time frame starting roughly around the moment of his escape.

He tinkered with it for a few minutes. There were so many oddly named applications, but his curiosity was piqued by messages and the contact list. Before he could have investigated these, it began ringing right in his hands.

Panic permeated his mind, though reason whispered to him afterwards. He had an ace up his sleeve. A solid lead he so desperately wanted. It was offered to him on a silver plate. He merely had to pick it up.

So he did.

And his whole world changed. He just didn't realize it outright.


End file.
